Ritual

The omen has now been sung
in the dreams of the mute wren
And thus our body is torn open,
hidden from fate's ken.

Our chalice of life
has become a fen of death.
The shroudclad bearer of destiny
forces his scythe between our breadth.

The warmth of blood is filling my mouth.
It flowing around me excites my skin.

I can touch her screams.
For their echoes are tunnels.
Her essence escapes through them.

I am alone and abandoned.

Angry yet stoic,
while a dry length secures my eyes.

They shall remain forever wide shut.
I am being forced

out.

My dead half mirror image.
Floating in limbo.

Belonging to the past,
yet also carrying
all the wounds of the future.

The warmth has ceased.
The drought withers our skin.
Chocking... heaving... twitching...
I shall never breathe.

The cold drought
is hauled away.
Yet our eyes see
but an endless sea
of eternal blackness.

Our lips forever sealed
with the flaming wax
of a thousand throes.
Our tongues are frozen still
by the chilling touch
of the most profound woe.

Half of her is I.
Half of her is her.
Half of them are we.
Half of them are them.

And thus my bodies are torn open,
in the dreams of the mute wren
Infinitely suspended in oblivion.
kept hidden from fate's ken.

For the omen has now been wishpered
In the very first tongue...

Infinitely suspended

in oblivion.

Hung from open bowels.
The legs are the gallows.
The cord is my rope.
I’m a chosen stillborn...